


Anchor

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Apocalypse, Blasphemy, Crack, Dreams, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mermaids, Mugging, Sickness, Smut, Violence, Zombies, angels/demons - Freeform, fairytale, naiad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: A collection of short stories for Diarmute AU Week 2020
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 29
Kudos: 27





	1. Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for Prompt 1: Soulmates

He doesn’t dream.

The boy grows up hearing his friends talk at length about their dreams and the person meant to love them forever— their first meetings, the glimpses into each other’s lives… but he has only darkness behind his eyes when he rests. He prays, and prays, and pray, hoping that perhaps if he is more devout, he will be blessed with a soulmate. Over time the only rational conclusion is that he is alone in this world, with no one to love him, and no one for him to love in return.

He starts fighting.

He joins the crusades in the hopes of salvation, but instead his mind becomes a void: nothing in, nothing out. It only occurs to him in the midst of battle that perhaps he does not have a soulmate because he does not have a soul. He is but a demon, shoved onto this earthly plane to bring destruction and death onto those around him. It opens an aching maw in his chest, clawing and biting and tearing at his heart. It hurts.

He does not know that, across the sea, a young man is dreaming about him.

Starting from a very young age, Diarmuid tells the monks at the monastery about the man in his dreams. The brothers all look at him with sadness in their eyes— except Brother Ciarán, who listens with patience and attention to all of Diarmuid’s dream ramblings.

Diarmuid tries to speak with the silent man, but he cannot hear Diarmuid. He yells and screams and cries, but there’s no response. It’s as though there is a veil between them and he cannot see Diarmuid in return.

The man is handsome, and scared, and he is always, always alone. Diarmuid watches him change over the years— there’s suddenly a giant black cross inked across his back. Now his nose is broken again and again and again. Fresh, open wounds bloom across his torso, growing at an alarming rate—

His beard grows thick and his eyes grow sad.

Diarmuid talks with him despite the lack of response, telling him about his life on the monastery; about the sheep herd and the ocean, his brothers, his learnings.

It’s a hot summer morning when he wakes with the knowledge that something is horribly wrong. It is the first night of his life the he did not see the man in his dreams. He gets feverish and lethargic, and none of Brother Ciarán’s herbs make him feel better. There's an emptiness in his mind that makes him jumpy and tense, and he feels as though he standing on a precipice and the slightest breeze may push him over into an all consuming nothingness.

 _Soul sickness_ , Ciarán says, and he looks more worried than Diarmuid has ever seen him. He tells Diarmuid that the man in his dreams is in mortal danger, though he doesn't need to say it aloud: Diarmuid knew from the moment he woke up that morning.

Almost a week into Diarmuid’s sickness, he suddenly feels a pulling in his chest and insists on walking along the beach. Brother Ciarán must see a something behind Diarmuid’s eyes because he only nods and insists that Diarmuid be back by the mid day meal.

Diarmuid doesn’t question the pulling in his chest, and when he sees the small wooden boat beached on the sand, his heart cracks open and he _knows_ —

He stumbles down to the beach, heart pounding, and yes, it’s him— it’s the man from his dreams.

Diarmuid’s elation is short lived. The man, Diarmuid’s soulmate, has thick lacerations bleeding through his shirt, he’s burned by the sun, and his breathing is alarmingly shallow. Diarmuid reaches down to feel his forehead.

At the brush of his hand the man jerks awake— hand snapping out to grip Diarmuid’s wrist hard. His dark, soulful eyes are wild and terrified.

“It’s okay,” Diarmuid whispers, feeling hope bloom like the sun in his heart.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” he tries again, and the man’s warm brown eyes latch onto his, searching and finding an anchor.

Diarmuid smiles at him, and the sudden overwhelmed light of recognition flares in the man’s eyes.

“Hi,” Diarmuid says, “I’m Diarmuid, and I think we’re meant for each other.”


	2. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for Prompt 2: Mob AU  
> (very, very loosely mob oriented...)

He should have noticed the men following for the past two blocks. He should have. He’s usually pretty aware of his surroundings— but it’s cold and raining and he just really, really wants to get home so he can text David. They’d been dating steadily for a solid month now, and Diarmuid knows he’s fallen too hard and too quickly, but he can’t seem to pull back. He’s just so happy when they’re together, and David is so kind and patient.

David had been the one to ask him out. Diarmuid worked at the local library on the weekends— it wasn’t much, and it barely helped at all with paying for his master’s program in Archaeology, but he liked it: the library was full of books, and it was quiet.

David started showing up every Saturday and Diarmuid was immediately entranced. He’s gorgeous: tall, dark, and handsome, with a thick dark beard and curly hair slicked back. He wore immaculate suits and shiny, shiny shoes. He looked especially fancy next to Diarmuid’s old beaten up clothes and dirty sneakers.

David didn’t speak and Diarmuid is the only employee who understands sign language, so everyone always points him to Diarmuid, not that Diarmuid is complaining. Diarmuid would blush terribly whenever he saw David, but David would smile and approach him, asking some inane question when he clearly already knew the answer.

But it was a little over a month ago that David walked up to him in while he was on his shift and asked him to coffee. Diarmuid thought he misunderstood for a second, but no, this insanely attractive, apparently wealthy man was asking him to coffee.

Diarmuid had nearly spilled the cold coffee he bought that morning all over himself in his haste to hide it so he could accepted David’s invitation.

David had figured out quickly that Diarmuid hasn’t dated men before, and he’s careful not to pressure Diarmuid— constantly checking that he’s okay, being a perfect gentleman. But it’s been a month of solid dating and Diarmuid is starting to get antsy and sometimes he wants David to _not be such a gentleman_ …

He’s so distracted by rain and thoughts of being clean and warm in his apartment and talking with David that it’s a complete shock when he’s shoved sideways into an alleyway.

Pain explodes in his stomach as something hard hits him and he collapses to his knees— slamming into the cold cement. There’s suddenly pressure, immoveable and icy, pressing to the back of his head.

“Don’t fucking move,” a low voice commands. And Diarmuid couldn’t if he wanted to— terror has frozen his muscles—

Hands slip into the back pocket of his jeans and he flinches—

It’s a gun pressed against his head, Diarmuid realizes, and it presses harder when he moves.

“Die-ar-moo-id,” the other man butchers his name, reading his license.

Rain soaked metal bites into his neck as the gun slides down.

“You got a phone?”

Diarmuid’s mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“Phone,” the man with the gun snarls.

“Yes. Front pocket,” Diarmuid manages to get out, gasping. 

The other man leans close and fingers dip into his jeans, pulling out his phone. The man smells of cigarettes and old fast food, and Diarmuid will never get the scent out of his sinuses.

The pressure on his neck lets up and he thinks they’re leaving, but white hot pain suddenly explodes along his side and he collapses. It goes on forever— boots landing all over. He tries to curl up to protect himself, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the volley.

The sound of running filters in and after a long while of laying still and breathing, he glances up. He’s alone. Everything hurts. It’s hard to breath. Stars burst into his vision as he stands, pain richocetting up from his left ankle.

He staggers to the alleyway wall and braces himself, trying to calm down. _Did that really just happen?_ He leans against the cement and sucks in painful, hitching breaths, rain dripping from his hair into his eyes. He tastes blood, but when he brings his hand up to his mouth it comes back coated in red, so his lip must be busted.

He firmly ignores his hands violent shaking and tries to figure out what to do. Hospitals are too expensive, he won’t call the police, and oh God, Ciaran would be horrified—

He wants to call David. David would know what to do. But as his hand reaches for his pockets he remembers that his phone is gone. Inexplicably the thought brings tears to his eyes and he groans. He struggles to bend and pick up his soaked bag, and the rest of the walk to his apartment is very, very slow.

He’s grateful that he doesn’t see anyone he knows on the way, and when he locks the door behind him, a sob chokes out of him.

He hobbles to his couch, pulling his laptop close and opening it.

_He won’t think about it_ , he tells himself, _just tell David._ Ciaran had lectured him many times about trauma— tell someone you trust, immediately. Don’t wait.

He opened the messaging on his laptop and finds David’s name. His fingers hovered, shaking, and he forces himself to type:

Diarmuid:

_David, are you awake?_

Of course David will be awake. It’s barely 10 and David seemed to stay up really late every night. He always responds immediately when Diarmuid texts him. It’s only a couple minutes later that he gets a reply.

David:

_Are you okay?_

Diarmuid hesitates. Is he okay? He feels kinda numb.

David:

_Why aren’t you texting from your phone?_

He types quickly, before he can change his mind.

Diarmuid:

_My phone was stolen. I was mugged._

The reply is immediate.

David:

_Where are you?_

Shit. Diarmuid hesitates, looking around his empty apartment. Before he can respond, his laptop alerts him to a new message.

David

_Do you need a hospital?_

Diarmuid

_No. I’m home. My apartment._

David

_I’ll be there in 20. Don’t move._

And Diarmuid doesn’t move. At all. A quiet knock at his door jerks him out of his trance and he hobbles over, putting as little pressure on his injured ankle as possible, and looks through the peephole. David is there, looking as umkempt as Diarmuid has ever seen him in a partially unzipped hoodie and nothing underneath, worn blue jeans and thick boots. It looks like he just rolled out of bed and drove over.

David slides in as soon as the door is cracked open. Before he can open his mouth, Diarmuid is enveloped in David’s strong arms, surrounded by his warm smell, and the feeling of safety that washes over him cracks his chest open and he starts sobbing. David holds him up, blockading him from the world, and Diarmuid’s shock melts away to pure terror— all the emotions he had been holding back hitting him with the intensity of a tidal wave.

It’s a long time before he manages to stop crying, and David pulls back a bit to look at him. Diarmuid tries to step away and hisses as his ankle protests.

David sucks in a breath and leans down, sliding his hands to the back of Diarmuid’s thighs and picking him up. Diarmuid winds his arms around David’s shoulders and clench his thighs around David’s hips as David carries him to the couch. He carefully lowers Diarmuid, hands soft as feathers on Diarmuid’s skin.

Diarmuid’s eyes burn with the heat of his tears, and he tries to scrub them from his skin, but David kneels in front of him and reaches up, pulling his hands away from his face.

_What happened?_

Diarmuid manages to get the story out in short, vague bursts. David’s dark eyes are doing something complicated, but he’s so patient— waiting for Diarmuid to get through the whole story, not saying anything when silent tears race down his cheeks again. _God this is embarrassing_. David for sure is going to leave him for being such a wimp—

David gently tilts his head towards the light, thumb ghosting over his split lip.

_Don’t move,_ David signs, standing and disappearing into the kitchen.

When he comes back, he’s putting his phone away and carrying a bowl with hot water. He kneels in front of Diarmuid again and soaks a rag in the water, wringing it out and pressing it carefully to Diarmuid’s eyes, the his cheeks, pressing it carefully to his lip.

_How would you feel staying at my place tonight?_

Diarmuid stares. What? He’s never been to David ‘s place—

_Just to sleep,_ David assures him. _I have a doctor on call and I’d like to have him look at your ankle. And I’ll feel better if you’re not alone._

Diarmuid glances around his lonely apartment and makes a decision.

“Yes, please,” he manages, voice a whisper. David clenches his jaw hard and nods.

It’s slow going getting Diarmuid out of his apartment and down to David’s car, but once they make it something loosens in Diarmuid’s chest: David’s familiar scent surrounds him in the car and he wants to curl up there and sleep.

David’s finger taps his chin.

_Don’t sleep yet, you might have a concussion._

“Okay,” Diarmuid mumbles, suddenly aware of how his wet clothes are probably damaging David’s nice car.

He doesn’t really remember the drive, but it’s about half an hour, and they pull up a long driveway flanked with redwoods and stopping in front of a pretty big house. Diarmuid feels embarrassment over his own tiny apartment well up within him.

“This is yours?”

Diarmuid grimaces, realizes he’s being rude, but David just nods and hurries around the side of the car to help him out.

It’s…a really nice house. It’s two stories, with a brick façade and large wood front doors. It fits David, somehow— large but not ostentatious.

Diarmuid starts to limp to the front and David hums, picking him up and carrying him. Diarmuid would normally laugh and squirm, but he’s so exhausted and achy that he just curls against David, wanting to soak in his warmth.

Diarmuid hides his face in David’s neck, hating tht this is how he first sees David’s home. David carries him the living room, putting him down on the lush couch, and texts someone on his phone.

_The doctor will be here in 5_ , he says, grabbing Diarmuid a glass of water and watching him drink it. Diarmuid wonders what exactly David does for a living that he has a doctor on call. He’d said he works in security, but that could mean anything, really—

“I’m sorry, this is such a pain. I don’t mean to impose—“

David squints at him.

_You’re not imposing. You’ve been mugged._

Anxiety crawls up Diarmuid’s spine.

“Shit, I have to report my wallet stolen. I have to call the bank, and the library, and school—“

His breathing picks up, but David leans forward, hand gently carding through his hair, and presses a soft, warm kiss to his forehead.

_Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it._

“David—“

_Don’t. I’ll take care of it._

Diarmuid swallows hard, but before he can say anything more there's a quiet knock signally the doctor's arrival.

The doctor is kind and quiet, checking Diarmuid over quickly. David hovers while the doctor palpitates his ribs, checks his pupils, asks a bunch of questions—

But he’s okay, just bruised and shaken. The most worrying injury is his ankle, but the doctor says it’s just sprained and to stay off of it as much as possible for the next two weeks.

When he leaves, David scoops Diarmuid up and carries him to the second floor, sitting outside the restroom and waiting for him to shower.

He slides a spare shirt and sleep pants through the door, and carries Diarmuid to a spare bedroom, carefully laying him down on the bed. He starts to pull away and Diarmuid gathers his courage, gripping David's wide wrist to stop him.

"Would you...stay? Just to sleep," he clarifies. His face flushes hot with embarrassment, but David smiles at him and slides into the bed. He unzips his hoodie and tosses it away, gathering Diarmuid in his arms. Diarmuid shoves away the twitch of interest in his groin and focuses on the safety David's arms provide, the soft skin of his chest warm and huge and comforting— the perfect place to hide from the world. Diarmuid gives in and presses his face against David's neck, relishing the feeling of his soft beard brushing against Diarmuid's face. Diarmuid falls asleep quickly, surrounded by David's wall of strength and familiar scent.

\---

He wakes up the next day to a pounding headache and a shiny new smartphone on his side table. A note with David’s fast handwriting says:

I’m sorry—had to leave for work. I’ll be back by 10am. Have whatever you’d like from the kitchen.

-David

Diarmuid stares at the shiny phone, baffled. He tilts it and the clock reads 9:23. David will be back soon, then.

He spends his morning hobbling through the house, checking it out. He carefully avoids the room he suspects to be David’s, feeling his stomach heat at the thought of being in there. There’s one room that’s locked, and Diarmuid’s curiosity flares, but he squashes it the best he can. The house is gorgeous and exactly how he would expect someone like David to live.

Diarmuid finds an apple and water in the kitchen and sits in the pretty, airy dining room to eat.

David returns at almost precisely 10am, and when he sees Diarmuid he hurries over and runs a hand along his cheek.

_How are you feeling?_

Diarmuid carefully hadn’t been thinking about how he feels, and he grimaces.

“I don’t really want to think about it,” he admits.

David smiles softly.

“David…you can’t just…buy me a phone.”

David’s eyes drop to the phone on the table and he reaches up to rub at his beard.

 _Why not,_ David asks.

“I…this is really expensive,” Diarmuid tries.

David shrugs, like it doesn’t _matter_ , and Diarmuid runs a through his hair and grimaces.

His lip pulls and he hisses, hand going to his lips and pulling away, finding blood from the reopened wound.

David grabs a napkin and presses it to his lip, and try as Diarmuid might he can’t avoid David’s soft gaze. He just looks so concerned, and Diarmuid has no idea what to do—

“David,” Diarmuid murmurs, and David cuts him on, tilting his chin and pressing his lips to Diarmuid’s neck. He stutters at the feeling of David’s careful lips against the hypersensitive skin, heat flooding his insides as his soft beard drags along his skin. David presses kisses all up to the hinge of his jaw, taking his face between his hands and carefully pressing against his lips, mindful of the cut.

When he pulls away, Diarmuid finds that his anxiety suddenly doesn’t seem so huge.

 _I wanted to buy it for you,_ David says, gesturing to the phone. _Please accept it. If it makes you too uncomfortable, I’ll take it back, but I would like you to have it._

And Diarmuid gives in, lost in David’s concern. A sudden bang and loud yell jerks Diarmuid out of the moment and David sighs, running a hand across his eyes.

“Alright— we found the fuckers, boss!”

“We’re ready when you are! And we got Diarmuid’s wallet back, by the way.”

Diarmuid recognizes the voices— it’s Rua and Cathal, David’s friends. They had met a couple times, and they seem very nice, but the yelling is…new. Diarmuid looks to David for an explanation.

David gives Diarmuid a sheepish look, and when Rua and Cathal pile into the room and see Diarmuid sitting at the table, Rua lets out a very loud and blasphemous swear.

“David,” Diarmuid asks, “what kind of…security…do you work in, exactly?”


	3. love in a jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for Prompt 3: Mermaids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a lovely drawing by CamelotQueen of tiny little merms in jars. Largely based on discussions in Discord, so I don’t get credit for all this madness.

He will _bite_ the giant. He shows his shiny, sharp teeth and puffs up his gills to look BIG.

The huge monster approaches the two jars and pauses, then reaches for Mermonk’s jar.

No!

He cannot bite from here! He thrashes around, trying to attract the giant’s attention, but to no avail.

The huge monster reaches his fingers down into the jar and Mermute thinks, _yes_ , _Mermonk will bite the monster_ —

But no, the pretty Mermonk floats up and sits himself in the monster’s palms, wrapping his arms around the giant’s fingers and waving at Mermute through their separated jars.

No!

Mermute thrashes more, showing his teeth at the monster and banging his fists against the glass cage.

But the giant monster just lifts Mermonk out of his small container and gently, slowly lowers him into the giant glass tank behind their little jars. Mermonk flips out of his grasp and looks up at the giant with a broad grin and wide eyes, expectant. The giant drops a round, purple object the size of his knuckle into the water and Mermonk happily grabs it and takes a large bite out of it, smiling happily as he munches on the odd foodstuffs.

Mermonk swims over to the side of the cage and holds the purple food thing aloft to show Mermute.

Mermute’s entranced, watching the pretty Mermonk eat happily and swim around his home, hiding amongst the seaweeds and popping out to look at Mermute sporadically. It’s a pretty looking home: large and clear, with sand and ocean plants and exciting looking places to explore— namely the giant structure with numerous caves dug into the façade. Mermonk would disappear into one cave and pop out of another, so Mermute figures the inside must be a maze. He wants to _know_ and he wants to make sure it’s safe for the Mermonk, but he cannot do that from here.

He presses his hands to the glass, frustrated. If only he could get over there and watch over the pretty Mermonk.

Mermute used to live out in the giant ocean world, fending for himself and fighting off predators. He had a comfy home in a coral reef and a sharp spear he fashioned out of a shard of glass to keep predators away from his little home. But one day a nasty giant net attacked his reef and tangled many creatures together, killing them. He tried to cut some free before they perished, but he got wrapped in its strong webbing and could not escape— even his sharp teeth could not damage the vile netting. It tangled up around him and hurt him badly— cutting into his skin and tail. He bled a lot and thought that this would be his ending.

But a monster found him— the same monster who picked up Mermonk and moved him around so easily. He cut the netting away and brought Mermute here. He kept Mermute in this tiny jar and took him out regularly, putting him on a cold surface and holding him still, cleaning his wounds and putting weird bandaging on his skin. He did not like it, but he had nothing to cut the material away and he could not bite through it. He is ashamed to say that, despite his muteness, he screamed and wailed soundlessly the first several times he was operated on. It hurt, and the monster was huge— much too big to intimidate with his Mer teeth and gills.

He does not know how long the monster has had him, but his wounds are healing and he is given good morsels to eat, so it isn’t the worst thing ever.

The best part, though, is that he was placed next to a giant, luxury water home with the most beautiful Mermonk he has ever seen. He is pretty—curly brown hair and big brown eyes, with soft, voluptuous blue-green fins that he flashes at Mermute. And when Mermute first arrived the monster took Mermonk out of his luxury home and put him in a jar next to Mermute.

Mermute wanted to hide his scarred flesh, thinking the pretty Mermonk would undoubtedly be disgusted by his appearance, but instead the Mermonk seemed very interested in him. He swam right up to the edge of his jar and waved at Mermute. He smiled sweetly, showing off his rounded, clean teeth. Mermonk had nowhere to hide during their first meeting, but he sunk to the bottom of his jar and curled up in an effort to avoid the Mermonk's gaze.

Mermonk was not dissuaded though. Every day he would twist and curl and swim around his little jar, pausing to smile at Mermute every so often. He started to dance, and Mermute found himself staring, jaw slack, as the pretty Mermonk showed off.

But now Mermonk is far away, in his luxury home again, and Mermute wants to be over there _with_ him.

The next day, the giant comes back. Mermute wants to tell Mermonk to hide in the caves and protect himself, but he does not. Instead he twists and twirls and dances for this giant. Jealousy flares hot and ugly in Mermute’s insides, but he squashes it in favor of concern for Mermonk’s safety. He reminds himself that Mermonk had danced for _him_ yesterday, despite his scarred, scary appearance.

The water shifts above him and he flails, thrashing in panic. The giant has dipped a net into his jar and is making low, bellowing sounds and Mermute’s heart hurts with how hard it’s pounding. There’s nowhere to go, no place to hide.

He squishes himself to the bottom of the jar and snarls, gills puffing up so much that it hurts, but the giant just scoops him up in the net and lifts him slowly. He twists, biting the netting, but to no avail.

The monster lifts him and slowly, slowly lowers him into Mermonk’s home. As soon as he’s able, he grips the top of the net and darts out, heading straight for Mermonk. He whirls around in front of him to block Mermonk from the monster’s view. He puffs up and shows his teeth: _Look, I’m BIG. Dangerous. Strong._

The monster watches them for a while with huge eyes, but eventually he must be intimidated by Mermute's size because he walks away and Mermute’s heart rate slows.

There’s a quiet hum from behind him and he whirls around. The Mermonk was beautiful from afar, but up close he’s stunning. 

“Hello,” Mermonk says, and his voice is silky and beautiful. Mermute wants to hear it all the time.

“I’m Diarmuid. I’ve been here all my life. What’s your name?”

Oh no. Mermute’s shoulders hike up and he hunches, embarrassed. The Mermonk— Diarmuid, what a pretty name— furrows his brow and tilts his head.

“Can you speak?”

Mermute shakes his head, waiting for Diarmuid to reject him. But instead, the beautiful Mermonk smiles at him, radiant, and reaches a hand out to touch his beard.

Mermute freezes, stunned to feel such a soft, gentle touch. Diarmuid's fingers smooth across his brow and through his hair, careful and curious.

“You’re really handsome. Did you like my dancing?”

Mermute nods despite the rising heat in his cheeks, probably looking like a very dumb fish with his mouth hanging open. But Diarmuid laughs and Mermute will to anything to make him laugh again and again, every day for the rest of his life.

“I’m glad, because I really like you. Can I show you around our home? It’s really pretty here, I think you’ll like it here.”

And Mermute already likes it— a lot— but he nods and lets Mermute lead him around the fancy ocean world, hand in hand.


	4. a different warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for Prompt 4: Angel/Demon

The mute is different. Diarmuid senses it immediately— he was the one who found the man several years previous, and since that moment the Mute has not let Diarmuid out of his sight once. All the brothers have their own theories and stories for the Mute, and since the man cannot speak for himself, there is no way for him to refute their stories.

Brother Ciaran has conjectured that the Mute was a crusader who transferred his desire to protect and defend onto Diarmuid.

Rua whispers into his ear to be careful— that the Mute has the look of a man with demons beneath his skin, itching to crawl out.

Cathal watches closely when the Mute is nearby. He's not necessarily scared by his presence, but he is wary. Whenever possible, he positions himself between Diarmuid and the Mute.

Diarmuid often wonders if he and his brothers are seeing the same man. While everyone avoids looking at the Mute for extended periods of time, Diarmuid finds that he cannot look long enough. When he looks at the Mute, Diarmuid sees a person who is larger than his own skin— a soul barely contained within its earthly boundaries. His physical being looks like a weapon, but there is a soft weariness in his gaze that refutes any malicious intentions.

\---

Laying in bed after a long, slow session of lovemaking, the mute fidgets against their sex mussed sheets.

“Are you okay,” Diarmuid whispers, wondering what’s going on in the Mute’s mind. He couldn’t possibly be uncomfortable…they had lain in the same bed many times, and tonight they did one of the Mute's favorite things: Diarmuid sat astride the Mute’s lap and lowers himself onto his aching arousal. On nights like this, Diarmuid ends up with finger shaped bruises on his hips and a pleasant ache in his thighs.

In answer to Diarmuid's hushed question, the Mute gives him a look full of sadness and expectation. When Diarmuid tilts his head at him, the Mute lays a careful hand on Diarmuid’s closed eyes. Baffled, Diarmuid relaxes against the Mute's shoulder, waiting.

For a long moment he sees nothing but the darkness of his own eyelids, but then an image forms from the black in his mind— vast and glowing in shifting colors, it’s a being with too many sets of wings to count—simultaneously down-soft and sword-sharp, but what Diarmuid hones in on are the soft, doe eyes—thousands of eyes, all over the creature’s wings and covering every surface—

Diarmuid recognizes those eyes.

“David,” the name falls from Diarmuid’s lips and the vision disappears as quickly as it came as the Mute pulls his hand away.

Diarmuid lets out a sound of protest, wanting to gaze upon the creature longer.

He blinks his eyes open and it takes several moments to adjust in the dark and make out the Mute’s face.

“That’s you? David?”

The angel, David, nods and turns his face away to hide in the shadow.

A smile pulls at Diarmuid’s lips.

“I knew you were different! You’re really pretty.”

David’s gaze jerks back to his, shock slackening the tension in his face.

“You do look like a ‘David.’ I’m so glad I know your name, now. Is that why everyone’s scared of you? You’re really a warrior of God?”

Diarmuid knows he’s babbling, but David just gives him a helpless look, and Diarmuid wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close.

“I’m not scared of you,” Diarmuid assures, and the remaining tension drops from David’s shoulders and his strong human arms wrap around Diarmuid’s back and grip hard.

Diarmuid knows all the stories of the angels by heart— how they drive men mad, wipe out cities, causes floods and earthquakes and all manner of disaster. But Diarmuid’s never felt safer than he does right now.

Determined to make sure David knows how Diarmuid feels, he slides his fingers into David’s soft beard and tilts his head, pressing his lips to David’s, giving a content hum when David opens his mouth to grant Diarmuid access. David makes a rumbling noise in response and rolls them, caging Diarmuid beneath him and pressing kisses all over his face, sliding a hand down to Diarmuid’s thighs, ready for the second round of lovemaking for the night.

\---

Walking by the Mute’s clochán after his evening meal, Rua hears Diarmuid’s high laughter burst out into the night air and he rolls his eyes, looking up to the heavens. Hurrying to pass the hut and muttering about incorrigible youth, he very firmly does not think about what the Mute’s doing to make Diarmuid laugh like that.


	5. instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for Prompt 5: Apocalypse.
> 
> Get ready for cliché, my dudes.

Diarmuid could always tell when the hot months were coming because the days would get longer and his robes would start to feel stifling.

On this particular morning Diarmuid had whined at Brother Ciarán, wanting to go down to the ocean to cool off. Eventually the monk waves him off, stipulating that he could go as long as he takes the Mute with him. Elated, Diarmuid dashes off to pull the Mute away from his leather tanning. He discovered early on in David’s residency at the monastery that if he smiles and squeezes the Mute’s hand, David will quickly give in to Diarmuid’s whims.

It’s all worth it when they get down to the beach and the cool ocean water laps at his ankles. David joins him, rolling his pants up to his knees and pulling off his shirt. Diarmuid hastily gathers his robes about the front of his hips. Seeing the Mute’s skin always makes his stomach feel hot and squirmy, and embarrassment makes him avoid looking (at least most of the time).

He distracts himself by taking in the Irish landscape. The waves are calm and small today, and there’s a gentle breeze sweeping across the coast, sporadically drying the sweat on their skin. Diarmuid looks down the beach and something in his spine locks up.

There’s a man walking towards them along the water’s edge. There’s something very wrong with his gait though— he’s slow and stumbling, shoulders hunched as though carrying a heavy weight along his back.

A strong, overwhelming instinct to run floods Diarmuid. He glances at David, further away down the beach to his right, then calls out a greeting to the stranger. The man starts to lurch faster when he hears Diarmuid’s call, and as he gets closer Diarmuid can see that the man is in terrible condition. He’s dirty beyond belief, and his face is vacant—

He’s hobbling faster as he gets closer to Diarmuid, and _oh_ his ankle is broken, that’s why his gait looks odd—

The man makes an animal groan, agonized, and his eyes are vacant and hungry—

Diarmuid stumbles back in the shallow water, heart leaping in sudden terror.

“David,” Diarmuid calls, unable to take his eyes off this possessed man.

“David!”

The man is too close now, reaching out for him, and he smells of rot and something like infection—

With the hard crack of wood David hits the man over the head with the worn branch he uses to carry baskets. David uses his free hand to tangle his strong grip in Diarmuid’s shirt and tug him away.

The sick man lays in the waves for a long moment, then twitches and shifts, pulling himself back to his feet.

He lurches towards them and David react instinctively, punching the possessed creature with a hard crack of his knuckles. Diarmuid yelps in shock and the man falls in a heap again. David shoves Diarmuid hard, trying to get him farther away from the danger.

“W-what’s wrong with h-him,” Diarmuid stutters, hands shaking. David turns shocked eyes to him, and seeing the former soldier look scared makes Diarmuid’s skin crawl along his spine.

Incredibly, the man starts to stand _again_ — David grips the wooden branch between two hands, preparing to swing it down.

“David…”

The possessed creature comes at them, heedless of David’s huge figure and the weapon in his hands.

David hits him, wood against flesh cracking through the hot air. With another swing David breaks the possessed man’s jaw and the creature's teeth are exposed, broken and full of something red and fleshy, but he doesn’t stop—

“David!”

David hits him again and again, until he’s on the sand, and he keeps pummeling the man until he stops moving and his head is caved in.

Diarmuid can’t fill his lungs—his chest is being squeezed by terror, watching the ocean suck at the corpse, waves pulling fleshy, oozing bits of him into the abyss. David’s hands grip him, pulling him around so he cannot see the dead man. David’s gaze is weird, like he’s not present behind his eyes. Diarmuid calls his name softly, having learned that if he moves too quickly or makes loud sounds while David has that look in his eyes the Mute gets spooked.

“David,” he calls again, and his friend blinks rapidly, eyes finally focusing on him.

“Let’s go tell the Abbot what happened,” he suggests, lips numb.

Something grabs David’s gaze over Diarmuid's shoulder and Diarmuid spins around. There’s another figure coming from the same direction that the dead man took. Their gait is similar, and Diarmuid knows that whatever had ailed the dead man has also infected this person. Diarmuid lets his eyes drift along the water’s edge and sees another person hobbling along the hills, and another along the cliffs, and another from the dunes…

He feels David's fingers slip into his palm, twining their fingers together.

Diarmuid squeezes David’s hand.


	6. spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I missed yesterday's prompt, so today is the last one for Diarmute AU week 2020.  
> Final prompt: fairytale.
> 
> I went with Naiad!Mute. :)

Brother Ciarán warned him about the pond. Diarmuid had run across it only recently, and he was shocked to find this exciting new piece of land so near the monastery. He had immediately told Brother Ciarán about it (because he tells Brother Ciarán _everything_ ) and asked why he hadn’t been told about it before. Brother Ciarán had a sudden dark look in his eyes, and he told Diarmuid to stay away from it, his only explanation being that there was a darkness residing there, and it was best to leave the land in peace lest they disturb anything that shouldn’t be disturbed.

Diarmuid hadn’t seen the big deal—it was just a pretty little pond in the forest. He quickly learned that, while Brother Ciarán was right about there being something there, he was wrong about the _dark_ part.

And now he goes to the pond nearly every day, for he found a new friend. There’s a man living in the pond. Well, Diarmuid says man because he has the appearance of a man— tall and strong and handsome, with thick dark hair on his head and jaw and between his legs. But there is something distinctly inhuman about him— beyond the fact that he lives under the lake. His eyes are otherworldly, and he doesn’t speak, though he seems to understand Diarmuid’s language. His skin has an odd sheen to it, and it seems thicker than normal human skin. Diarmuid had blushed bright pink the first time he saw the water spirit because the man didn’t appear to have any clothes nor did he seem bothered by the fact that he walked around naked.

In fact, the water spirit seemed quite baffled by Diarmuid’s own robes, and he would frequently touch the dark fabric and try to peer beneath the hem despite Diarmuid’s blushing and fluttering hands waving him off.

After their first several meetings, Diarmuid manages to gather his courage and asks Brother Cathal about the pagan myths around water dwelling beings, and while Brother Cathal clearly wonders _why_ Diarmuid is asking, the water spirit he describes sounds much like Diarmuid’s new friend. While the myths says that the spirits should be avoided do to their dangerous, unpredictable nature, Diarmuid feels very safe around his new friend and chooses to ignore the warnings.

\---

Something in their relationship changes when spring hits. The water spirit, whom Diarmuid had decided long ago to call “David,” would step out of the pond every day with a firm, large arousal between his legs. Diarmuid was shocked at first and would avoid David's dark gaze, but David would only sit next to him and watch him as he talked about whatever was on his mind. He appeared a bit grumpier than normal, but Diarmuid could forgive him….walking around like that did look uncomfortable. Diarmuid would sneak quick looks at the spirit's erection— he was very...large, and heavy looking, and Diarmuid found his stomach twisting not unpleasantly at the sight.

One time, David took Diarmuid’s hand in his and tried to bring his fingers down to the spirit’s erection, but Diarmuid had yelped and pulled away, and David hadn’t tried it again. Diarmuid couldn’t stop thinking about it though, and the next day, as David sat shifting and squirming next to him, Diarmuid sighed and reached for him.

It was as though a floodgate had opened, and every day Diarmuid would come back and help David with his…predicament. And while helping David made Diarmuid’s own body respond, he was hesitant to do anything about it…at least in front of David. He would shuffle away from their encounters and hurry to a nearby enclove and snake a hand up under the front of his robes. He would touch himself with the same hand that touched David, and sometimes there would still be some of David’s semen between his fingers, and he couldn’t help but rub the tacky liquid into his own skin, squirming and ashamed and so unbelievably aroused. It was always over embarrassingly quickly, but the memory of David moaning under his hands and the sense memory of his erection in Diarmuid’s palm was too intoxicating to last long.

Over time it became obvious to Diarmuid that David wanted more from their interactions. He would kiss Diarmuid wherever he could reach, and his fingers would brush up under his thick Novice robes— one time even slipping between his cheeks and ghosting over his hole before Diarmuid pulled away in shocked arousal.

But today…

His heart had pounded out a hard rhythm all morning, both in anticipation and a significant amount of fear. He had spent the past several days preparing himself, and he was sure that someone would eventually notice the depleting stock of oils, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much when he knew that David was waiting for him.

David doesn’t notice at first, sitting next to him as he always does and pressing kisses to Diarmuid’s cheeks, forehead, and neck before settling on his lips. Diarmuid loves David’s greeting and he laughs and smiles against David’s soft, red lips.

“I have something a bit different in mind today, if you approve,” he starts, not sure how to broach the topic, anxious fingers smoothing through David’s soft beard. David watches him with his calm, pretty eyes, and Diarmuid swallows his anxiety, shifting to straddle David’s hips.

David’s hands immediately climb under his robes, sliding up his thighs and rumbling his approval deep in his chest. Diarmuid swallows hard, takes one of David’s broad hands and guides his fingers back, back, until he can feel the oil slippery and hot along Diarmuid’s crack.

David’s eyes go wide and he growls, the most inhuman sound Diarmuid has heard from him, and Diarmuid is suddenly flipped onto the soft grass, laying on his back and staring up at the blue sky as David slides his robes up over his hips.

Kneeling between Diarmuid’s knees, David grips Diarmuid’s ankles and lifts his legs into the air, looking down at Diarmuid’s slicked entrance with blatant, otherworldly hunger.

Diarmuid feels a spike of anxiety. Perhaps he had underestimated David’s otherworldliness?

But when David meets his gaze, Diarmuid recognizes him; soft, careful, cautious.

He’s waiting for permission, and Diarmuid nods, exhaling shakily. David shifts his hips closer and something screams in the back of Diarmuid’s mind.

“Wait,” he suddenly yelps and David immediately lets go of his ankles, scooting away and watching him with concern heavy on his brow. Diarmuid reaches for his hastily discarded satchel, fumbling for the vial of oil he had snuck out of the kitchen. He hastily uncorks the glass bottle, dumps too much oil on his palm, and reaches for David. He slicks the oil over David’s thick erection as quickly as he can, then lays back down, fighting a sudden swell of embarrassment and spreading his legs again.

“Okay,” he says and David grips one of his ankles again, broad hands wrapping tightly around the bone and lifting his leg into the air. Diarmuid shifts as David looks down at his exposed body, but David has the dark, hungry look in his eyes again and he reaches down to grip his own erection. Diarmuid has a jarring moment of clarity, in which he recognizes David’s superior strength and how easy it would be for David to pin him down and take whatever he wants—

Diarmuid jolts as he feels the hot, slippery head of David’s arousal press against his entrance, but he forces himself to relax as he feels David start to press forward. He wonders if he stretched himself enough, because David is huge, and the pressure is immense and oh, he shouldn’t have done this—

But David’s erection suddenly slides past the restraining muscle and settles into him, jolting a shocked breath out of Diarmuid’s throat. David is watching Diarmuid’s face, waiting, clenching his jaw hard to restrain himself, and Diarmuid takes a moment to breathe through the overwhelm before nodding and feeling David slip in more, and more, forever—

Until his wide, strong hipbones press into Diarmuid’s bottom, pubic hairs soft against his skin, and Diarmuid moans, amazed at the contradictory feelings of both intimate connection and horrifying vulnerability. David looks wrecked— pupils blown huge and watery, mouth open with his panting breath. His free hand goes to Diarmuid’s other ankle and he tugs so both Diarmuid’s legs are up in the air. Diarmuid is filled with intoxicating, arousing embarrassment at being held open and exposed for David’s pleasure—

Then David moves, eyes rolling back in pleasure as his hips shift and roll. The drag of him pulling and pushing is exquisite and overwhelming and Diarmuid moans, embarrassingly loud in the small enclove, voice echoing across the still water of David’s home.

The sound snaps something in David’s control and his grip turns rigid, hips rutting into Diarmuid hard, skin slapping obscenely, and Diarmuid reaches down to touch himself, pulling quickly as slick drips from the head of his erection, knowing he won’t last—

David snarls at the sight of him touching himself, and the sound shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, but it’s so much better than he thought it would be and why did they wait this long—

David’s thrusts become jerky and frantic before he suddenly stills, hips buried as deeply as possible into Diarmuid, head throws back in ecstasy as he peaks.

The feeling of David throbbing and spilling inside him pushes Diarmuid over the edge and he spills as well, feeling himself contract around David as his hips jerk hard and his vision goes spotty.

When he comes back to himself, David is laying down with his chest pressing into Diarmuid’s belly, ribcage brackets by Diarmuid’s shivering thighs. The look on his face is so overtly fond and happy that Diarmuid laughs, reaching down to run his hand through David’s curls, now dried from the warm spring air. He’s going to be very sore tomorrow, but…

“What do you say to trying the other way tomorrow?”

David grins at him, nodding and rumbling in approval.


End file.
